“How can you be so sure?”
“I read the newspaper. This Iranian diplomat was involved in disarmament talks. With the task completed, he was preparing to travel back to Tehran. His wife did not wish to return. Most likely she drugged him in some manner as to incapacitate him, then dragged him to the balcony and pushed him over the side. She plays the grieving widow and then seeks political asylum. She likes living in the West.”
“But she was with her sister at the time of your so called murder. They were together all day, all evening… Mrs Chanel has a solid alibi,” Anika protested.
“I’d hardly call it that, my dear. Did you read her statement to Sergeant Wilke?”
“Yes, I glanced at it.”
Fynn picked up a sheet of paper and began reading in English:
“… I fell asleep on the sofa in the afternoon.”
“What woke you?”
“My sister did… when she turned on the light.”
“Do you know what time that was?”
“Yes, just before nine. I was still a bit groggy but I noticed the clock.”
“Which clock?”
“The antique clock, there by the window.”
“What happened next?”
“My sister went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and an aspirin… I was feeling unwell so she decided to stay the night. I even remember her calling her husband.”
“Did she speak with him?”
“No, I think she left a message.”
“What then?”
“I fell asleep again and didn’t wake till the next morning. Then we heard the terrible news…”
Fynn looked up from reading.
“I don’t hear anything unusual in that interview,” Anika commented.
“Ah, yes, but the clock… the one by the window… She could only see it because her sister turned on the light.”
“So?”
“Why would she turn on a light at that time?” Fynn asked. “I checked the apartment. The clock is situated near a large west-facing window. It should not be difficult to see from the sofa, and, she should have seen a brilliant sunset that evening, at precisely nine twenty-eight.”
“Are you saying the time was wrong?”
“Yes. This is where Mrs Chanel made her only mistake. The sun refused to cooperate with her plan.”
“Very clever, father.”
“I believe Mrs Chanel killed her husband while her sister slept, and then returned to set the hands on the dial back by one hour, providing herself with a perfect alibi.”
“Do you think her sister is involved as well?”
“In what way?”
“The alibi.”
“I suppose it’s a possibility, but I rather doubt it. The sister fell asleep probably because of the same drugs used on her husband. She was never tested.”
“And what does Sergeant Wilke say about all this?”
“He concurs whole-heartedly. The specific details of his own report bear out everything I’ve said. The diplomat was filled with barbiturates… part of his suicide it was first supposed. The time of death is not in question; witnesses saw the body at nine o’clock on the pavement. And, it is about an hour’s walk from her sister’s apartment.” Fynn smiled. “Of course I also asked, what sort of a man bent on suicide eats dinner, cleans his plates in the kitchen and then takes a dive off a balcony?”
“Was there a suicide note?” I asked.
“A fair question, Patrick.” Inspector Fynn turned to me. “Written in Farsi, there was such a note, yet rather nonspecific.”
“How do you mean?”
“It spoke of the diplomat’s vague feeling of unease about returning to his homeland; indeed one may categorize it as despondent, but it is my suspicion that this note is merely a letter, or perhaps a journal entry ripped from elsewhere.”
“Did he keep a journal?”
“None was found.”
“What about CCTV footage?”
“Of Mrs Chanel going to and fro from her sister’s house?”
I nodded.
“Spotty at best… and there are no witnesses. Who should notice a woman walking up the street, this time, wearing a hijab after all?”
“Alright then, I’m quite impressed, father,” Anika said from the sofa and sat up a bit more. “But the old man, the child molester. Surely that was a murder? He was beaten to death,” Anika observed. “Some sort of terrible revenge was acted upon him.”
“Not murder, my dear. Things are not at all how they first appear. The man was accused to be a child molester, yes. But I asked, who does the accusing? It turns out to be his nosy neighbor from across the landing. She says this because she frequently spies through her peephole. She watches children coming and going into his apartment. I took a look at the man’s door. There was a note pinned to it, but only a meter from the floor. A note made for a child to read, and written in Portuguese. I will translate what it says: Welcome, children… enter and be recognized… your loving Grandpapa, Ferdinand.”
“But he was found naked in his chair, beaten to death.”
“A terrible accident, not murder at all,” Fynn said.
“If I remember reading the report, his wallet was found empty on the kitchen table and his credit card had been stolen,” Anika countered.
“Yes. It can all be explained rather easily. There was also a bottle of rum on the table and two glasses found in the sink.”
“What happened then?”
“I think the unfortunate man’s last evening unfolded thusly: Grandfather Ferdinand’s daughter pays him a visit. Perhaps they argue, perhaps not. They share a drink or two. He gives her everything he has from his wallet, all his money, and, he lends her his credit card. Mr Ferdinand loves his grandchildren and does not wish to see them want for anything. His daughter leaves; he has another drink perhaps, and heads for the bath. You remember, it was found full?” Fynn reminded.
“And then?”
“Perhaps the telephone rings… in any event, he leaves the tub hastily and has a terrible fall, hitting his head against the sink. I noticed myself how slippery the bathroom floor was. It was in the report as well. From there a series of accidents, almost tragically slapstick one might imagine. Reeling from his first injury, the man falls again and again, unable to keep his balance. He staggers towards the living room, becoming ever more unstable, and not without more mishaps along the way. When he finally drags himself to his usual chair, he collapses, slips into unconsciousness and dies. He is found some days later, naked, battered and bloodied. Tragic certainly, but not murder at all.”
“I’m quite astonished,” Anika said. “What does Sergeant Wilke say?”
“He is interviewing Grandfather Ferdinand’s daughter again as we speak.”
“And the final three murders? You said they were related in some way?”
“To each other, yes.”
“Let me recall the circumstances for a moment,” Anika said. She turned to me. “Do you remember, Patrick?”
“Let’s see… an accountant who looks like Angela Merkel, a lawyer who works for the EU, and a retired Russian mobster.”
“Why that’s it exactly,” Anika exclaimed.
Fynn chuckled to himself. “In keeping with our theme, I shall call the Russian mobster, Mr Putin.”
“Putin? No, that won’t do at all,” Anika protested. “I’ve seen him passing by on the street several times. He’s a great towering man with an ominous beard. Rasputin would be a far better name.”
“As you wish.” Fynn laughed quietly. “Well, this case has to do with location, though I doubt it will ever be solved,” he said.
“Why is that?”
“Our Russian lives at twenty-two Westermarkt, the adjacent apartment is twenty-four. They seem to be separate buildings, but this is an architectural trick. It is in reality the same building, inasmuch as they share a common wall. It was clear even to the police that there was egress between the so called mobster’s flat and Ms Mer
kel’s bedroom.”
“How so?”
“There is an old door between the two buildings which had not been plastered over, and it was found open on both sides.”
“Both sides?” I asked.
“Yes, unlocked— implying a certain consent, I would say.”
“Consent between whom?”
“Ah, quite a number of witnesses reported seeing Rasputin and Ms Merkel together, indeed even sharing a iced coco along the canal at a cafe— if you’ll pardon the word, Patrick.”
“So, it’s safe to say they were lovers?”
“I would agree… and so did the police.”
“And the lawyer for the EU?”
“A hapless victim, I am guessing. The Belgian lives downstairs at the same address as Ms Merkel.”
“What do the police say?”
“For them, this was a love triangle ending in violence. The mobster discovered Ms Merkel and the Belgian lawyer in her bedroom, he shot them both, returned to his study and committed suicide at his desk.”
“Behind a locked door,” Anika added.
“Indeed, the key was found in his vest pocket.”
“But you think otherwise,” I commented.
“Admittedly, I had to begin with one central assumption: a mobster cannot really retire at all. He was likely still involved in illicit activities. From there it follows: Who knew about these activities? And then I asked, were they party to them, were they trying to hinder them, or even, was it a source of leverage?”
“Like blackmail?”
“Exactly this.”
“They might have been oblivious to the illicit activities,” Anika said.
“My dear, you’ve struck to the very heart of the matter.”
“So you must be thinking about some nefarious connection between the three of them,” I started. “Ms Merkel was probably doing the mobster’s books, hiding cash and stuff… Or this lawyer— maybe he was covering up illegal import-export contracts to the EU.”
“It could cause a political storm,” Anika agreed.
“Chock full of motive here… and three people dead,” I concluded.
Fynn said nothing but stared at us both with a half smile.
“What is the answer then?” Anika finally asked.
“Well, despite an exhaustive investigation, no connection between Rasputin and Ms Merkel was discovered; and I am meaning in terms of the accounting firm where she works.”
“They checked everything? Her laptop?”
“Yes. Sergeant Wilke was quite thorough in this regard. Neither was there a connection to our Belgian lawyer. He didn’t seem to know Ms Merkel or Rasputin at all, except perhaps as neighbors.”
“What happened then?”
“I believe this murder was committed by a professional, a hired assassin who will likely never be apprehended.”
“Why?”
“The way I see it, the only means to retire from the Russian mob is by liquidation. Ms Merkel and the lawyer were used as a convenience.”
“What?”
“The surveillance system at Ms Merkel’s flat was disabled. No CCTV, no alarms. Someone broke into that building. Mr Rasputin was rather better protected. His security system would be very difficult to breach.” Fynn paused. “Our professional killer entered into twenty-four Westermarkt. He found the lawyer downstairs and forced him at gunpoint into Ms Merkel’s bedroom. He was compelled to strip and lay down next to her. Then they were both shot in the head with great efficiency. The killer walked through the shared door to Rasputin’s apartment. He shot him with the same gun and staged the scene to look like a suicide.”
“So, it’s just a mob hit?”
“I would say yes.”
“What about the door?” Anika asked.
“It was not a locked door mystery after all,” Fynn replied. “It was easy to see the fresh marks of a screwdriver with a magnifying glass. I’m rather surprised the crime scene technicians missed something so obvious.”
“What are you saying?”
“It was a very old lock. The assassin dismantled the entire mechanism with some basic tools, then deftly tripped the latch and reassembled the entire thing from the outside.”
“And DS Wilke? What does he say about your ideas?”
“He is reluctant to pursue a case which cannot be solved.”
chapter twenty-five
durbin’s dust
Anika was fast asleep on the sofa. It was well past midnight when Inspector Fynn got up and gently spread a blanket over her. Neither of us felt tired and he whispered that we might take a walk. “Just give me a moment to jot down a note, in case Anika should wake up… confused.”
We strolled out into a warm night. Mostly all the traffic had disappeared. A few cars passed, slowly creeping, probably hunting for a parking space. Some bicycles were about as well, and they clanked a soft bell if we seemed inattentive before whooshing by.
“Thank you for coming along the canal with me, Patrick. It’s a good place to think, given the right company.”
“I hope I’m that at least.”
“Of course, my good friend.” Fynn smiled, though a bit wearily. “I am vexed by these killings of the policemen. Over the past few days, so much thought I’ve given it, but I’m no closer to any sort of resolution, let alone a plan for action.”
“It’s not much of a mystery…”
“Why say that?” Fynn turned to me.
“A serial killer, murdering detectives? Isn’t that a lot like corpsicles showing up on the beach in Sand City?
“What are you saying, Patrick?”
“It sort of reminds me of Mortimer’s modus operandi.”
“Well, I must say your Latin is coming along nicely… and I would agree, but there is a different signature to these crimes.”
“How can it not be Mortimer?”
“He knows well who I am. And why would he kill all the others?”
“Maybe he’s trying to hurt your friends. Like Durbin.”
“Perhaps… but I believe you mentioned Drummond’s daughter was gunning for you.”
“Yeah, that’s what Zalika said.”
“I have no reason to doubt her. Do you?”
“No, but—”
“Then, we are left with the first question: Who are the intended victims?”
“Someone is out to get you,” I said.
“Me?” Fynn seemed surprised. “Well, they’ve done a poor job of it, haven’t they?” He gave me a tight smile. “And, I’d be rather an easy target. No, modesty aside, I believe you were the intended victim in all cases.”
“Me?” It was my turn to be surprised.
“Either you, or any of my partners and colleagues.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The locations in Franny’s report. Most are places where you have spent time: Sand City, Ottawa, Los Angeles, Seattle, Portland, Colorado…”
“Wait, I don’t remember ever going to Ottawa.”
“Don’t you? Well, perhaps you will in the future.” Fynn smiled. “Don’t look so alarmed, Patrick. I’ve ruled you out as a suspect.”
“That’s a relief.” I tried to return his smile but found it difficult. We crossed through a small park.
“The killer seems to have incomplete knowledge. They know of you, but they think of you as my partner… so they end up killing all my colleagues. It is in the end a very clumsy business.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We might surmise the killer does not know exactly what you look like, your exact identity. In a very broad sense, you at least resemble the victims. Only Jamal has not been bothered with.”
“Well, his partner was killed, Rocky somebody…”
“Exactly this, and I believe such to be an important clue.”
“All the other victims were white males,” I said slowly.
“Yes. Being a black man has saved Jamal.”
“So Mortimer is after me?” I asked.
“This also seems unlikely.”
I thought for a moment. “There is another possibility.”
“I would say more than one,” Fynn remarked. “But what is your idea?”
“A version of Mortimer who doesn’t quite remember everything.”
“Ah… of course… a Mortimer of limited awareness. One who has heard many stories told, but does not actually know me… or you. This is very good thinking, but it is wrong.”
“Wrong? Why?”
“I’ve never known Mortimer to use a firearm. No, there is something about these crimes which says to me they have a woman’s touch.”
“Meaning?”
“The gun.”
“What?”
“It seems to be the same gun at each crime. A Beretta four-one-eight. A woman’s gun.”
“Why is that?”
“Small calibre, easy to handle… It fits in the palm of your hand, though it has no stopping power. One must get very close to the victim.”
“And?”
“Well, if a man like Mortimer approached his target, any normal policeman’s reaction would be apprehension and suspicion.”
“That makes sense.”
“Of course it does… Ask yourself, who could engage a male detective in his thirties or forties with absolute impunity?”
“An attractive woman.”
“Exactly this. She comes in close, perhaps with a smile, and then, quickly and quietly, she summarily shoots them. Quite brutal.”
“So you’re back to Drummond’s daughter.”
“Yes,” Fynn answered and cut down a side street to another canal.
I felt a bit lost and disorientated. We were getting too far from Anika’s apartment. “Okay, if you think it’s a woman, that sort of narrows down the suspects.”
“I can only agree.”
“Maybe it’s Chloe or Lilly? Jamal told me they were probably there in New Hope.”
“They were, I will attest to that. But I feel sure it is neither of them.”
“Okay, maybe it’s Zalika herself.”
“Zalika?” Fynn asked.
“Jamal mentioned something, the ballistics report… the shots were fired from a downward angle. It might be someone very tall doing the shooting.”
“She’s a head above most people I know, this is for certain, but such seems doubtful as well. Her description appears nowhere in any of the witness statements— incomplete as those are.”
Low City: Missing Persons (A Tractus Fynn Mystery Book 3) Page 35